


For Every Kiss You Give Me

by jeromesqualor



Category: Mean Streets (1973)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Homophobia, First Time, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 19:31:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10556488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeromesqualor/pseuds/jeromesqualor
Summary: Johnny's staying over at Charlie's. It's no big deal. Johnny stays over all the time. Charlie's just looking out for him, is all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fic in years but I couldn't find any Mean Streets fic and, you know, be the change you want to see in the world and all that.
> 
> Contains period-/canon-typical homophobia and brief references to Catholicism. Title courtesy of the Ronettes.

It’s not that Charlie loves Johnny –

He does love him, of course, like a brother. That’s why he’s always got to look out for him: helping him with his debts, letting him stay over, saying prayers for him. Charlie’s got to look out for him, or else nobody will. And if his chest tightens sometimes when Johnny looks right at him, or if his hands seem to not know what they’re doing when they aren’t touching him – not _touching_ him, just, clapping him on the back or tousling his hair, an arm slung over his shoulder – if it feels that way sometimes, that’s got nothing to do with him and Johnny. Not really. It’s nothing to do with anything.

Charlie has known Johnny since they were kids. He can’t remember meeting him, and sometimes when he thinks of old memories, he can’t quite make sense of why Johnny would be there, but he always is. Maybe he and Johnny just spent that much time together. Maybe his memory is a liar, retrofitting Johnny in where he didn’t belong. As if his memories would collapse without Johnny in them.

He keeps thinking about his uncle saying _honourable men go with honourable men_ and for the first time he’s worried about what it means that he and Johnny live in each other’s pockets.

“You all right, Charlie?” Johnny asks, lighting a cigarette, his accent coming out thick when he says Charlie’s name. They’re walking from the bar, back home – _Charlie’s_ home, back to Charlie’s apartment. It’s the third night this week that Johnny is staying over. Charlie’s trying to remember if that’s more or less than usual.

“Yeah,” he says, tugging at the front of his coat. He’s got this big fucking coat on and he’s still cold. “Just thinking about the movie the other night.”

Johnny doesn’t say anything. Thank Christ. Charlie watches Johnny out of the corner of his eye, how his face changes with the cigarette’s glowing tip moving close and then away again. Charlie thinks it over and he can hardly remember a thing about the damn movie.

“You coming up?”

Johnny stamps the last of cigarette out against the wall of the apartment building. “I’m not sleeping on the fucking streets.”

 _He’s an ungrateful little shit_ , Charlie thinks, and then stops himself right there. He’s got to look out for Johnny. End of story. Grateful doesn’t come into it. But. Third night this week. He thinks suddenly of the girls he could bed without Johnny staying over so much.

“Eh, you’ve gone all red,” Johnny says, and Charlie looks at the ground. He pulls his collar up towards his face.

“Better get inside. Out of this fucking cold.”

It’s a couple of flights of stairs up. Charlie’s hand ghosts over Johnny’s upper back, as if he’d get lost.

They get to the door and Charlie fumbles with his keys. He doesn’t know what’s fucking _wrong_ with him lately – it’s just Johnny staying over, it’s no big deal. Johnny stays over all the time. It’s got to be to do with his uncle, he figures. And if it only seems to happen when he’s with Johnny, and not when he’s thinking about the restaurant, or when his uncle is asking him questions and he’s got to focus on not messing up – but something kind of like it happens when he’s with Teresa, not as intense, maybe, so it’s got to be to do with his uncle.

They’re just in the door when Johnny starts stripping down to his undershirt and boxers. They’ve undressed in front of each other loads of times – if you’re going to sleep in a bed together, what’s it matter to see someone get down to their underwear? – but Charlie is suddenly very aware of where he’s looking. He’s trying to remember whether he usually makes a point of not looking, or he just ignores the whole thing. He starts undressing too, just to give him something else to concentrate on. He ends up purposefully looking the other way but glancing over occasionally to try to keep a natural conversation going.

Johnny is asking him something about a goddamn movie, but it seems far away, like a radio dialled between stations. Something twists in his gut when he sees Johnny undo his belt. He looks away, to the crucifix on the wall.

Charlie’s hands are trembling when he unbuttons his shirt. He reminds himself that there’s no way for his uncle to find out, that it’s just him and Johnny, but that makes him feel sicker.

Johnny has walked over beside him, down to his undershirt and boxers. “You got any food, Charlie?”

Charlie shrugs off his shirt and runs his hand through his hair. “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”

Johnny laughs. “And I’m fucking hungry.”

“And I’m fucking tired. I’m going to bed.”

He doesn’t say _we_ but Johnny follows him anyway. Charlie climbs into the bed and Johnny lies down beside him, pulling the blanket over them both.

Charlie is just falling asleep when Johnny pokes him in the chest.

“Eh, Charlie?” he whispers, as if there’s someone around to disturb who wasn’t there when they got undressed. As if whispering would only make the silence bulge, not break, the way the street sounds do.

“Yeah?” Charlie says. He rubs at his eye with the heel of his hand. Johnny is leaning over him, propped up on his elbow. Charlie rolls over onto his back, enough that he can look right at Johnny if he wants to but he’s not in the centre of his eye-line. Looking at the ceiling as if there’s anything there to look at.

“I want to thank you. For all you’re doing for me. I appreciate it.” Johnny lowers himself down off his elbow. He lies on the flat of back, but twists his head around to look at Charlie. “Nobody else but you gives two shits about me. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says again, hollow and distant. He rolls back over onto his left side, ready to go to sleep. He’s surprised by how close he and Johnny’s faces are. He tries to remember what directions they usually sleep in.

Johnny’s looking right at him, and Charlie wants to look away but – it’s like he’s frozen on the spot, right down his pupils. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but Johnny’s eyes are really brown. Charlie knows that.

“And I don’t give two shits about nobody but you, Charlie. Honest.”

Charlie’s known Johnny since they were kids, and he can’t ever remember Johnny saying something with so much weight to it. Johnny’s either manic-happy and saying whatever shit comes into his head, or he’s hard and mean and then you can’t really take what he says seriously because if the only filter working in your brain only allowed the most hurtful shit through then we’d all be fucked, right? But this. Johnny said it like he’d thought about it a lot. Charlie doesn’t know what to do with that.

He doesn’t trust his mouth, so he reaches up to push some hair off of Johnny’s face instead. Then his hand just sort of stays there, fingers knotting into Johnny’s hair.

“You should get a haircut,” he says weakly. Johnny laughs.

Johnny reaches out and slides his fingers through Charlie’s hair. First he mimics Charlie’s hand in his own hair, solid and still, and then he gets bored. He combs through all the hair he can get at, fingernails gently digging into Charlie’s scalp. Charlie keeps completely still, his hand still in Johnny’s hair. Then Johnny scratches at the nape of his neck and a shiver runs through his body.

Johnny’s hand jumps away. Charlie shuts his eyes tight and pulls his hand back to his chest. He goes completely still, bracing himself for Johnny to laugh in his face. He imagines Johnny telling Tony, telling _everyone_ , and he can’t breathe.

An eternity passes. Charlie tucks his head into his chest.

He squints open an eye and glances up at Johnny.

Johnny is just lying there. Looking right at him. He isn’t laughing, but he doesn’t look horrified, either. He looks... soft.

Johnny reaches forward again, to the hair at the back of Charlie’s head. He strokes Charlie’s ear with his thumb. Charlie leans ever so slightly into the touch. Johnny’s fingers roam over his face, feather light: over his cheeks, his chin, and his jaw. His fingers are calloused and warm. He glides over the side of Charlie’s neck and down his chest. He rests his palm against Charlie’s heart, over the fabric of his undershirt, his fingers against the bare skin above.

Charlie looks up and meets Johnny’s eyes. He puts his hand over Johnny’s, over his heart.

“Johnny,” Charlie says, but he can’t find the words. It’s not like – he thinks of the gays that hang out the bar sometimes, the ones Michael gave a ride that one time, and – and he and Johnny aren’t like that. Johnny is his blood brother. He’s just... looking out for him, is all.

Johnny’s eyes dart down to Charlie’s mouth, then back. Charlie feels his lips part. The hand Johnny has on Charlie’s chest goes to cup his face, and his other hand slides around Charlie’s waist. Their noses brush against each other. Charlie’s breath hitches.

And then they’re kissing. Johnny presses his lips to Charlie’s, leaning up to cup both sides of Charlie’s face. It's slow and deep and wet and Charlie’s whole body feels like it’s on fire. Johnny slowly rolls himself on top of Charlie, biting gently on his bottom lip. Charlie rubs Johnny’s back. He eases his fingers under his undershirt, skin on bare skin. Johnny pulls away, sitting up on Charlie’s stomach, and pulls his undershirt off over his head.

Johnny sits there and looks at Charlie underneath him. Charlie gently touches Johnny’s chest, his abs. The warm curl in his gut returns, stronger. Johnny takes hold of Charlie's wrist and guides his hand down from his chest to the waistband of his boxers. Johnny’s hard. It’s way too much and Charlie feels like he’s dying. He rests his fingers on the elastic of Johnny's waistband for a moment, trying to feel less dizzy.

He palms Johnny’s dick through his boxers and grins when Johnny shudders and his mouth falls open.

Charlie puts a hand behind Johnny’s head to pull him down to lie on top of him. He kisses him on the cheeks, nose, forehead. Mouth. Johnny rubs his dick against Charlie’s stomach. He strokes Charlie’s arms and his chest, squeezes his nipple. Charlie groans and his hips buck up involuntarily. He feels Johnny smile against his mouth.

Johnny dusts kisses along Charlie's jawline. He slides his thigh between Charlie’s legs, pressing against his hard cock through the fabric of his boxers. Their bodies roll against each other, desperate for friction.

“Charlie,” Johnny says, barely audible, burying his face in the crook of Charlie's neck, “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.” His nails dig into Charlie's hips.

“Johnny –“ Charlie says, hand firm on Johnny's lower back, the front of his boxers damp against Johnny's thigh. He noses into Johnny’ hair and attempts to keep his breath steady when he says, “I wanna... I wanna see you... when you come.”

Johnny pushes himself up to look at Charlie, leaning a hand against the wall behind them. Charlie reaches between their bodies and puts his hand inside Johnny’s boxers. Johnny fucks into his hand, letting out tiny gasps and moans, eyes half-lidded but trained on Charlie’s face. He comes warm and sticky on Charlie’s hand and slumps to his side against the wall.

Charlie wipes his hand off on his undershirt. He feels kind of sick. He’s still hard, and Johnny's head is sinking into the pillow, eyes closed. Charlie adjusts himself roughly and sits up on the bed. He'll get up, go sleep on the sofa, or somewhere, anywhere he can try really hard not to think. He swings one leg out of the bed when Johnny grabs his arm and pushes him back into the mattress.

“S’okay,” Johnny murmurs, stroking Charlie's temple with his thumb, “S’okay.” He keeps his fingers against Charlie's face – gentle and soothing and warm – while he grips Charlie’s cock with his other hand. He strokes up and down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Charlie's neck, chest, shoulder. The rhythm of Johnny's strokes is erratic and fast and he's strong and rough and it's nothing like when Charlie's done this with girls and nothing like when he's done it himself. He wraps an arm around Johnny’s waist and holds him close. He grabs Johnny's ass, and Johnny keens against him. Johnny slides his thumb over the head of Charlie's cock, slick with pre-come.

Charlie's attention is so focused on Johnny's hand on his dick that he barely registers what Johnny is whispering in his ear, manic-fast. "...Want you to fuck me," he's saying when Charlie tunes in, "Want to fuck your mouth... Jerk off thinking about your mouth." Charlie feels himself fucking _blushing_ , and he wishes Johnny would shut the fuck up but he's so, so close, and Johnny bites his earlobe and it's only a few more strokes until Charlie comes.

Charlie's not sure how long has passed when he comes down from his orgasm, but Johnny is licking the come off his hand, eyes locked on Charlie. He shivers and pulls Johnny next to him, head on his shoulder. Charlie rubs up and down his back.

“You’re going to pay Michael on Tuesday, right?” Charlie whispers.

“Yeah,” Johnny says.

“Just pay him something. Doesn’t matter how much.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, “I appreciate all you're doing for me, Charlie, really, I do.”

“Yeah.”

(They don’t talk about it. It's not – It's like when Charlie tries to put words on it, it becomes something else, weird, wrong. He can’t find the words, for what him and Johnny are, for what it means. Johnny’s sleep-steady breaths are warm against his neck. A part of him wishes everyone could see Johnny like this – not some kind of madman, just quiet and open and so, so young. But a bigger part of him wants this Johnny all for himself. To be the one who takes care of him.)

He presses his mouth to the top of Johnny’s head.


End file.
